Other Side of Rain
by LittleLionLoki
Summary: Where we would we be if we didn't defend our pride? Perhaps that's what's so beautiful about death. In the end, death does not discriminate as it burns away all varieties of souls - petty, proud, or humble - to make the same ash. Sh/OC. R&R
1. I Know You

_"I'm so tired of_  
><em>never being taken seriously.<em>

_Can't be doing with wasting time _  
><em>what am I doing with my life? <em>  
><em>You need to find your own <em>  
><em>peace of mind. Everybody knows you're fucking intelligent <em>  
><em>so why do you feel the need to please?"<em>

_~Laura Marling~_

* * *

><p><strong>Airic:<strong>

I simply couldn't help guessing the back story of every patient or medic, so that I might entertain my finicky attention span. I flipped through their lives like the secretary flipped through files not meant for her eyes, and like the janitor with impending Alzheimer's flipped through his keys. St. Bart's Hospital had its variety of stories just like anywhere else - the burning smell of disinfectant was the only thing new.

After about ten minutes of people watching, I picked up an old edition of The London Times on a coffee table that was bombarded with European tabloids and medical brochures for the worried kin of patients. It struck me that the gauche waiting room was arranged by a left handed person: the coffee table was on the left side of the chairs, leaving a gap on the right; the floor lamp's knob was placed comfortably for a left-y and a children's whiteboard had markers taped to its port side.

I briefly scanned the front page article bearing a collage of charred buildings with "Chain Bombings of Baker Street" in bold. That was irrelevant to me due to the fact I was looking for a flat rather than a juicy terrorist read. Coming from Balbriggan, I had no family or friends within London's 100 km radius willing to take me in, except Greg Lestrade. He was married, though, and would not have me crashing into his family, so he promised me a good living arrangement.

We met - rather he found me - working in a big town bakery, oddly enough. I found that he was from London in Dublin on business; if I was correct, he was scouting for some much needed interns back at Scotland Yard. He saw some talent in me and offered to sponsor my tuition at my desired school, Le Cordon Bleu. I was absolutely baffled as to why a man of the law enforcement would care about a young girl's aspiration to become a humble cook. His behavior mystified me. I sensed nothing sinister, for he didn't have the heart, but I figured that it didn't matter as long as he paid for my education.

Lestrade said he had to run an errand before showing me my headquarters, but after a few minutes of waiting in St. Bart's lobby, I began to grow radically impatient. I grumbled bitterly in my head. What could be so entertaining, so immensely important in the adjacent lab he had slipped into, leaving outside? Out of my oppressing curiosity of what he was up to, I crept toward the lab door and listened as my father's voice filled my ears. "Curiosity killed the cat, Airic." I knew I was always the cat, and I knew someday I would have to pay, but I didn't care. As long as I acquired some knowledge, some tidbit of a revealed secret, my wellbeing mattered little.

Peeking through the square foot window, I saw Lestrade facing away from me. He was talking to someone - anxiously, I might add. His fingers were tapping and he was slightly rocking back and forth. I could not see who he was talking to because of the angle of the window combined with my _feminine_ height.

"How are your… studies? Coming along?" he asked plainly while running his hands through his silver hair.

Silence.

"Listen, I - uh -I've met someone."

Silence.

"I think it might be good if you met 'em," he tried again, this time succeeding a response.

"I've explained this before, Lestrade. I don't date. Dating is boring, and I am much too busy," said a monotonous voice.

"Not a date, as a partner. She's really an intelligent person, and I think she could possibly be good for us."

"I work _alone_," the arrogant voice said bluntly, enunciating in his still low voice "alone".

A foolish part of me took this as my cue to enter the lab. I slowly slipped into the room, almost unnoticed until spotted by the icy, blue eyes of the "other voice".

"Ah," said Lestrade with a relieved expression. Walking toward the two, I glanced at the man, his paperwork, his cufflink, his phone and then returned my gaze to him. He sat up straight as a board with his large, spidery hands clasped in front of him. His skin was as ivory as sun bleached bone which was complimented by his pale rose tinted lips and tousled, black hair. I was taken aback by his piercing eyes; they seemed to paralyze me as he looked me up and down and once again let them meet mine. I started to form a smile as I noted his gaping expression, like that of a deer in headlights.

Lestrade took my hand and announced with pride, "This is Airic O'Connor." The man still glared as if in a supernatural trance cast by Hecate herself. "Airic, this is -"

"-Sherlock Holmes," I chimed in.

Lestrade nodded with a proud grin and leaned back on the abaft table. The man, Mr. Holmes, flashed a brief beam but then sat on his stool, turning his focus to his microscope.

"Exactly how long did you boast of me?" Holmes inquired in a tone that was starting to irk me.

"I told her nothing about you. She's quite smart, Sherlock." I was enjoying this moment in the spotlight, though I knew I couldn't possibly play Clue when there were flats to be purchased and school things to be gathered.

Holmes lifted his head from his microscope and gasped. "Oh… I see. So you're a proper genius, as well?" he retorted, seeping with sarcasm.

In one instant, I was filled with the most hateful pride and ill malign. This man that had hardly known me for a minute was judging me – more underestimating, I suppose. Well, I could prove myself quick enough.

"I know that you're some sort of detective, but not a normal one because the police only come to you when they're in need of it, which appears to be often, judging by the size of your ego. I also know that you're antisocial. You choose to be alone at work because your roommate left you alone at home, and with them gone, you thought that work would pass the time. He is the closest thing to a friend you have, but yet you always tend demean him. People can't stand you, because you can see right through them, which drove you to be a sociopath of the highest means. Right now, the only person who believes you can show affection is… a woman – no, a landlady, but things can change."

Holmes' face read blank like the page of a schizophrenic novelist. I curtly decided to carry out the burn with one last blow.

"Don't doubt that anyone can be as intelligent as you, Mr. Holmes."

"- Sherlock," he cut in.

"Who knows? It's a big world out there and it's full of plenty smart people." I took his hand and gave it a firm shake. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

I took no time to observe his face, for I knew I had stolen his pride and filled him with festering insecurities. I strode out the door knowing I was the winner in a battle of wits, but I could derive no satisfaction from it. It was not my character to discourage, and realizing my cruelty, my eyes began to blur slightly. I would not free those weak tears, though. Not one scrap of empathy would I ever shed for Sherlock Holmes.

_**I have posted this before, but I honestly wanted to make this the absolute best I could. Please, please review and tell me how it's going. I need your help, and you DO have a voice.**_

_**-Rath de 'ort**_


	2. Pray Tell

_"Are you hiding secrets, from me?_  
><em>Is there more to this life that I can't see?<em>  
><em>What will I find out over time?<em>  
><em>Waiting for the moment to arrive?"<em>

_~Anberlin~_

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock:<strong>

I was strewn across the sofa in my normal disposition, thinking and reflecting, which seemed to become a ritual every time John went out. I was not deducing evidence from any haunting murder, for London had been hatefully peaceful lately. Instead, I thought of the curious events that had been played out earlier that evening. I placed my hands together in a familiar position, and I closed my eyes. I let the scene play over in my as I tried to analyze the strange woman.

I was quite accustomed to flint like malign and snobbery, but there was something about her, Airic, that did a frightful thing to me. When she spouted off, going through ever little detail she could trace on me, I searched her but found nothing. Every lack of rebuttal had ensued, though I am sure that I had kept a stone front. I had been so used to knowing about a person almost instantaneously, but for some curious and dreadful reason, I couldn't understand her. The hidden explanation in my fickle reaction was starting to madden me.

After the woman left like an overdramatic schoolgirl, Lestrade confronted me with an asinine choice: she was either to learn alongside me as an intern or my ability to work cases would dwindle.

He had put so much faith in her; in a way that felt slightly obscene, I respected him for it. John would laugh at my current state: slow whit, utter confusion and now respect for emotions. I can hear him saying, "Sherlock, you _do_ have a heart!" Thus, I would have to explain to him, that sweater-wearing kitten, that I am programmed only to think, not feel.

I thought once more of Airic. Though she had wounded my vanity, I could not bring myself to plot against hers. With my eyes still shut, I studied her image in my mind. Up and down, I scanned her – her alabaster but evanescent skin, her lengthy, espresso hair, and the two golden embers that she claimed as eyes. Even in my mind, I could not put together her story; she was seamless. But it wasn't that I couldn't _find_ anything, but rather that I didn't think to _look_ for them. I racked my brain trying to figure out how I could've let my talent be suddenly stifled.

After approximately three hours of incessant conditioning, I stopped for a tea break. I haven't eaten in two days and an inviting cup of tea was my admired pick-me-up. I moved aside my beakers and wondrous stacks of data so that boiling my water would not become an unwanted fire hazard. As I waited for my teakettle's steam induced whistle, I looked around my flat and sighed. I found myself praying for a complicated murder or group of frightening serial killings, something to entertain my mind, so that I may not be reduced to mediocrity.

As soon as I plopped on the sofa to return to my ample thinking, John came through the door.

"You- you're here," John stammered with a hint of astonishment.

"Well done, John," I replied trying to hide my enthusiasm at his presence.

"I don't know; I just thought you'd be at Scotland Yard," he said.

"Open and shut domestic disturbances are below me, John. Waste of my time." His face changed, and he took a moment to think - always an amusing thing to watch.

"Lestrade didn't call you…" he put together. I shot up from my reclining position and listened intently, hoping that the supreme deity had answered my pleas. A ridiculous smile started to form on his face.

"Oh, you're going to love this. Someone left a gift."

It felt liberating to be in Lestrade's office once more. I couldn't help savoring the snarky comments from Donovan or Anderson's murderous glares, in which I responded to with a gracious smirk. It had been a couple months since the last case, but yet the Yard remained the same. I knew I wasn't brought here on a minor occasion, for when I saw the object of suspicion, I deduced its peculiarities.

"We were going to wait for you to open it," Lestrade confessed and nodded to a little grey box on his desk. I looked at him in a wary manner and he replied, "Don't worry it's clean."

I ran my fingers over the box's metallic, pewter wrapping paper and with a few cautious swipes of my pocket knife, cut a flap in the box. A place card read "_**To**__** Holmes: Watch Closely." **_I might add it was written by a right-handed male. The writing was poorly disguised shown by the small dots of ink from his trembling and hesitant hand. Beneath the card, was a wristwatch nestled comfortably in a bed of wood shavings.

"What do you make of it?" John asked the question that was plastered all over Lestrade's face.

"Shut up, John. I'm thinking," I said coolly whilst picking up the watch. I ran my fingers over it and inspected it with sensitivity.

"You can tell by the craftsmanship it was made in Ireland. The letter engraved on the back is a Gaelic _N__,_ obviously for a person whose name starts with N. The number 12 is important, as the hands are stopped at 12, yet there is no adjustment knob. This watch was not created to tell time, but only to send this message – it shows we're dealing with someone who has connections. This little gift is a warning of some sort, stressing the importance of time."

This left John and Lestrade puzzling the cryptic code but the rusty wheels in my head were starting to turn, plunging me out of my once bored state. Whoever had sent this was clever; their message was clean of any other forensic evidence. They had given us a tease, a taste of what is to come, and they knew that I wouldn't be able to solve it without another clue. All we could do was sit and wait. If one was going to threaten Scotland Yard, they were sure to carry out their intentions. And, if they succeeded to strike once, they were bound to do so again.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Please review! My life depends on you.<em>**

**_- rath de 'ort, my dears._**


	3. Brown Trout Blues

_"I could be somewhere else,_

_I should be somewhere else_

_but you can't tell me what to do._

_I'll only take the brakes off if you do."_

_~Johnny Flynn~_

* * *

><p><strong>Airic:<strong>

I didn't think about it. I didn't dwell on the curious man that I had met a couple days before, on how easily he had agitated me and made me who I normally wasn't - a hurtful child. So the man was blunt and overconfident, and I was quick to tear him apart for it. Perhaps it was that his ways reminded me eerily of my own, or, rather, of my thought process. More than once, I had caught myself thinking with a certain blatant condescension.

We both had our reasons for it, though. Mr. Holmes was always alone, never trusting anyone most likely due to some childhood expulsion because of his remarkable brilliance. As for me, the condescension spurred from the loss of something dear. I turned to intelligence with a newfound disinterest in "the normal human's" ways, and woke up to realize that I was surrounded by people who wanted completely different things, friends, the perfect home, the perfect spouse, and the perfect family. Everyone I came across sparkled with this dream and I encouraged them to long for it, to set examples. I once pleaded with my cousin to get rid of her cold feet, all the while knowing that her fiancé had been cheating on her by the slight glimmer of wiped away lipstick behind his ear and the forgotten earrings in his pockets. But in the end, it might have turned out all right.

Therefore, I fled from mediocrity and made my way to London in hopes of finding excitement. So far, things were looking pretty dodgy, what with my flat appearing to be from the 1890's with hardly any renovation. My current state of unemployment was also a bit unappealing. These were all relatively minor issues, though; I had to make do.

The flat Lestrade had found for me was somewhat amiable but small, almost as if to match my limited budget. The front door opened into the living room, which possessed horrid, pale blue wallpaper and scuffed wooden floors. The closet- size kitchen branched off the main area on the right and my bedroom to the left. The only enchantment was the large, bay window that watched over the streets of London – at night, you could spot Big Ben all lit up in golden splendor.

I was bored, though. Moreover, I absolutely LOATHED it. I had only been settled in for a few days, but I could feel myself maddening with each cruel minute of nothingness. I let my mind wander in desperation on the most miniscule events:

The pottery across the street had claimed to have been robbed, but that was a lie, for, the owner had left behind incriminating evidence that the bumbling bobbies did not pick up. Another _exciting_ event was the addition of a new neighbor in the flat next to mine. He was fairly young - about my age, maybe older - he was a minor column journalist and had moved from his old town, Stropshire, due to the poor work there.

As I tried to entertain myself with these little stories, my mobile sung out in its painfully obnoxious ringtones. I was quick to reach for it and found that Lestrade's gruff and frazzled voice was on the other line.

"Lestrade," I answered, perhaps sounding a bit too surprised. "Hello."

He breathed a sigh of relief, as though there was something of importance that he had to communicate with me and was all too glad to hear me answer. "Hello, Airic. Listen, I... uh... I called you for a reason."

He paused for a while to make sure it was alright to proceed. "Well, you know your school doesn't start for a while – a couple months, actually, and I would like you to think about - well, about working with Scotland Yard as an intern." Lestrade spoke slowly, enunciating and choosing his words carefully, well aware that that the phrasing of the proposition could affect my impression. He went quiet and waited for my response.

"I…" The idea caught me off guard, though it shouldn't have. Lestrade's motive for bringing me all the way to England peaked my curiosity – I was not so quick to believe that he simply struck up a conversation, and then found me a wonderful candidate for his sponsorship. "Well, I _am_ free and currently without a job…" I could almost picture Lestrade's ears perking up at my probable "_yes_". "But the man – Sherlock Holmes – he wouldn't agree. You have _him_ and I couldn't –"

"Don't you worry about Sherlock. I've already discussed it with 'em. He'll be fine."

"Lestrade," I somewhat detected a bit of negligence in his voice, which didn't lighten my hesitance. "I'm sure that he'll be fine, but if I was to actually believe that he wants me treading in on his cases, I wouldn't think twice."

Lestrade heaved a sigh and it was more than clear that he was a bit frustrated with the situation – or rather me. I couldn't imagine why it was so important to him that I joined the team at the Yard. Honestly, I _knew_ that I was a bit more clever than the ordinary, bright-eyed interns that they received but so was Mr. Holmes.

"I'll think on it," I responded in a positive tone.

He was reluctant but cordial. "Yeah, I understand. Just let me know when you made up your mind."

It was then that my mobile beeped, signaling that someone else was trying to get a hold of me. We exchanged goodbyes and I switched over my phone to the other caller. It was my father.

"Airic!" greeted his loud, joyful voice, and yet there was an unorthodox bitter-sweetness permeated his words. "Do you miss your old Balbriggan?"

"No, just my old man."

He chuckled at that. It was hard for me to leave him alone in Ireland so that I could go trekking for adventure, but Balbriggan held nothing for me. All its challenges were trivial and not _my_ sort of challenge.

"How's work?" I asked.

"Fine, fine. The same as always."

"What's that? Dangerous? Onerous? Hardly even worth it?"

He considered it for a moment, but then changed the subject. "Well, what about you? Have you met a man yet?"

It had only been a week since my absence and my dad was already interrogating me about my relationships. He was always pressing me to settle down, or at least "find some 'pa-worthy' man to hold my hand at Christmas dinner". Irritated, I softly knocked my head against the wall.

"Actually, yes, I have met people and some of them happen to be men."

"What's wrong?" he asked, which means, "Why haven't you gotten engaged and brought the boy to Ireland and bought a house next to mine, then?"

"Dad, you know that I want to focus on my career first. Besides, the only man my age is a – a—."

"Jackass?" he gladly cut in.

I smiled to myself and thought about Sherlock.

He continued, "Don't fret, m'eudail. They all are."

We were both quiet for a second, as this was probably a sentimental moment for him more than it was for me. I cut a glance at Big Ben's distant but readable clock face as it chimed ten o'clock.

"Dad," I gently lied, "I've got to go. I've got a busy day tomorrow."

A little guilt crept up in me for being so curt with him; we had been so close all these years until I decided to move to London. Nevertheless, he, being the tender and compassionate man he was, graciously resigned.

"Airic," he sighed, "It's a big city. Be careful."


	4. Where Is My Mind

_"Try this trick and spin it, yeah _

_Your head will collapse But there's nothing in it That you ask yourself:_  
><em>Where is my mind?"<em>

_~Emmy The Great~_

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock:<strong>

St. Bart's database was filled with all sorts of lovely documents, making it an incredible asset to my cases but now it was fruitless. There was nothing to scan the top-secret files for and nothing of relevance pertaining to the gift-sent wristwatch. It took me about four hours to clear up a minor side case before I, in boredom, scanned though various gene pools and briefly noted the imprints on a psychopath's cranium. All the while, my mind tried to speculate what the watch had to do with anything, though I knew that it was in vain at this stage of the mystery.

Having to wait for a crime to be committed was aggravating, but the wristwatch was only meant to be a warning, not a lead, and it was just that. There was no escaping the messenger's caution in sending the package. Every lead, every little tease of _Is this evidence? Perhaps they made a mistake!_ came up dry with no name or face to the origin of the package. They were smart in that.

There was something taunting about having to anticipate more evidence, but this was a start.

"It will be worth it," I murmured to myself while staring at the broken watch that lie on the table in its irony – the irony that the unwavering clock hands were stuck as if to coincide with the pace of the story it had yet to tell. I sighed in exasperation and gathered my coat and scarf, then made my way out the lab door and through the whitewashed halls of St. Bart's.

Why was it that, all of the sudden, the world was choosing to be difficult? Although, not in the clever-sixteen-scale-Sudoku difficult way, but the let's-all-trade-places-in-the-mental-processing-caste-system difficult way. Just the other day, a random stranger who happened to tell a few minor details about my life besieged me. Now, I possessed a clue to a promising case that left nothing but a thrilling imprint on my mind. All these things pounded repeatedly in my head all ending with the same question _– WHY?_

I walked slowly, for John was not at home but off somewhere with some woman… or man... I wasn't quite sure, but either way, there was nothing for me to do and no one to entertain me so it wouldn't hurt to take my time. It wasn't as if he was waiting up for me. I ambled through the hallway, trotted down the concrete stairs, and remained in a thoughtful mood.

It was only when Molly Hooper called my name that I subtly picked up my pace, but she eventually caught up with me.

"Sherlock," she cooed with glee printed all over her soft features. As I saw from the off-colored stains on her sleeves, she had been working on a particularly damaged cadaver. "Hi!"

"Evening, Molly," I patiently responded.

"So, what are you working on this time? Something exciting, I bet."

"You'd lose that bet, Molly Hooper. It's quite the intransitive one."

She frowned and looked down at her shoes, then replied with slight disappointment in her voice, "Oh. I'm sorry." Sometimes it seemed as though she was more interested in my personal affairs than I was. Molly popped her head up to look at me, suddenly recalling something of importance to her. "Oh, goodness. I nearly forgot to tell you." Her small mouth tried to suppress a smile and her cheeks ripened into bright rouge. "You left your riding crop in the morgue."

* * *

><p>Molly winded her way through the maze of halls, leading me to her workstation, the morgue, so that I may fetch my crop. As we walked, she giggled and kept on talking about things that couldn't mean less to me such as some person named Toby or how busy she had been with slicing up some corpse.<p>

When we reached the morgue, she hastily moved to a locker and produced my possession from it. I snatched the crop with a satisfied expression and started to head out of the room without any more conversation, but I stopped when I saw a horrifically scathed body lying on the cold, metal examining table.

Molly quickly addressed my curiosity, "Ah, that's him."

"Who?" I asked with my eyes lingering on the dead man.

Molly bit her lip and raised her brow at me. "The man I told you about. You know, while we were walking. Paddy O'Connor? You thought it was interesting."

Apparently, she thought I had been listening to her rambling.

I moved toward the table and looked upon the man, studying his wounds, deducing his cause of death. His torso had a tremendous lack of skin and the right side of his face had been directly burnt. The only thing I could make of him was that he was an old military man and wasn't married. The rest of the evidence to his identity was burned away by his unfortunate cause.

"It was an explosive, wasn't it?"

Molly had watched me and flashed a beam when I spoke. "Yeah. It was a bit unfortunate." She picked up a clipboard with his background information on it and read aloud, "Unmarried, one child, and he was a bomb technician for the military." She set the papers down and looked upon the man with sympathetic reverence. "It's sad that they lifted him all the way from Ireland and he still didn't make it."

Something about the man that had caught my attention and I puzzled over what it was. His eyes - or rather, "eye" (the other was nowhere to be found) was a certain recognizable shade of gold, despite the film death had placed over the pupils. His hair was a dark brown and streaked with silver strands and even though he was dead, his face ridden with a peculiar proud and self-esteemed expression – an expression that looked as though he thought he knew everything. It was remarkably familiar.

"_Ohh…_" I mouthed at the minor success. It was, in a true sense, a _minor_ accomplishment, but at least I could put an end to one mystery – Ms. Airic O'Connor, the woman who thought she had all the knowledge. The more I thought about her, the less I found a reason to care, to waste thought or "mind space" on her. She was completely irrelevant. She didn't affect me as she thought she did. She didn't best me, either; I didn't even try.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Molly looming over the body next to me, trying to see as I saw in an attempt to dissect my thoughts. "Thank you, Molly," I nodded and turned on my heel, leaving her with as much confusion in her face as in a quantum physicist's chalkboard.

"You're welcome," I heard her meek voice call as the morgue door creaked shut behind me.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Stay alive, m'eudails. We've survived so much but Sunday... <strong>_

_**Rath de 'ort.**_


	5. You're No God

_"You're no god_  
><em>You will never leave this place<em>  
><em>You will always feel alone<em>  
><em>You will learn to feel quite clean in this new skin that you have grown until your old and broken bones are laid into their resting place, <em>  
><em>just like the rest of human race."<em>

_~Laura Marling~_

* * *

><p><strong>Airic:<strong>

I had spent the weekend unpacking what little possessions I had brought for my new home. Only things of dear sentiment made the trip, which mainly consisted of homely cookware and a _mammoth_ amount of books. Since I had moved in, my flat had been littered with books like _The Brief History of Time _thatlay just above _Mastering the Art of French Cooking _next to the stack of collected Irish cookbooks and adventuresome detective stories like that of Poe's Dupin – a personal favorite. Frequently, I would glance over my library and wonder why I had such varied tastes.

As I straightened my precious piles of rubbish, I gazed out my grand window and watched the people on the street below content with their everyday beatitudes. They were happy as they hustled to their office where lonely cubicles lie in wait for them. And I was at home. Bored. Convinced that I would have been better off accepting Lestrade's proposition.

Unexpectedly, two brief knocks plunged me out of my sulking. I didn't make a move to open the door, but just stared at it. Perhaps if I stared long enough, I would've been able to see through the wood and figure out who the curious visitor could be. I did figure one thing, though: they had no patience because after a few moments, the man (the dense sound of the knuckles confirmed that it was a male) began rapping nonstop.

I got up and glanced through the peephole to see a familiar, black-clad man with the most memorably light and piercing eyes.

"Shhh…" I breathed then, hastily drew back, pressing my body to the door as if it would shield me from his gaze.

"I know you're in there. I'm not completely ignorant," he said, aware that I could hear him. Sherlock Holmes breathed a sigh that translated: _I would rather be somewhere else__._"I need to talk to you."

I grimaced and thought of ways to escape_: _

_Window?__…__Ledge... Hm. Grappling hook! Where the hell am I going to get a hook?_

I opened the door instead.

"Good morning!" he exclaimed with a smile as big and bright as the sun.

Previous acting experience, I noted.

"How did you find me?" I inquired, suspecting that Lestrade had something to do with it. He waltzed past me, his black coat fluttering behind him like a cape. "Come in," I muttered as I closed the door.

"Easy. Caught a glimpse of your phone number when Lestrade wasn't looking and matched it with the recent real-estate purchases." He stood vacantly at the window with his hands folded behind his back. "A cook," he said with a smirk and turned his attention to me.

I nodded.

Sherlock frowned and directed his gape again out the window.

"How did you know?" There was a hint of sarcasm in my voice, but he didn't seem to pick up on it.

"You're not from here – your accent gives that away. You don't have a job or you would be out and you don't work the night shift or I would see it in your eyes. The bookcase is full of cookbooks - not amateur, but quite aristocratic. The knob on your oven has recently broken off, but it's sitting on the counter because it is important to you that it is fixed soon – you needed the practice for school. And…"

At first, Sherlock seemed as though he was going to keep going, but stopped short after thinking something over. I could see a spark of hesitation in his features. I thought he was pondering over something socially acceptable to say. Pausing, he took a large step close to gaze down at me. Sherlock stood oblivious to the fact that our bodies were an uncomfortable distance apart but despite the strong urge I had to step back, my feet didn't want to comply. My breathing ceased for a moment and I stared up at his unwavering eyes. Slowly, the corners of his pale mouth turned up.

"…you have flour in your hair."

Trying not to show my embarrassment, I walked to the small mirror in my pint-size "foyer" and picked the traces of my hobby out of my hair.

"Ms. O'Connor –"

"Airic," I corrected.

"Airic," he continued in a low voice. "How did you know about me?"

"The same way you knew about me," I answered plainly. "No tricks, no research. A person's life is written all over them but no one ever looks close enough. Why is it so hard for you to believe that you're not the only observant human being?" I saw his face in the mirror. He was in deep thought, but others would suspect he was praying.

"Look, I would love to sit and have emotional bonding time, but," I broke him out of his concentration, "you don't strike me as an emotional man. Why are you here?"

He drew a breath.

"This morning, about 9:00, a bomb went off outside of central London. The police said it was an accident, faulty wiring, but a few days ago we received a … warning, of sorts. The reason I am here is because…" Sherlock's voice trailed off and he looked at his feet.

"Lestrade -" He bit his lip and winced in egotistic pain. In a low mumble, I heard him continue, "_I _would like your help."

I was beaming ear to ear and thanking the deity above for saving me from the evils of tedium.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

He shot a glare up at me. "You heard very well what I said."

"I don't know. I'm a bit busy." I wanted to make him work for it but I knew he was not the type to beg. "It would be an adventure," I smiled.

"Brilliant!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "Come. I've got a cab."

He flew out the door and down the stairs taking long, exuberant strides. It took me a moment to realize what was going on but I soon scurried after him. A cab was waiting for us like he said and I wondered if he knew I would come with him, after all.

I didn't notice until I shut the car door that there was another man in the cab. He was a military doctor - as far as I could tell - and he looked about as puzzled as I felt. He sat between Sherlock and me and glanced at the both of us in an awkward manner.

"John, this is Airic O'Connor, our new... colleague."

_John__,_ I thought, _he's the roommate – the friend._

"Oh, yeah? Dr. John Watson," John said as he shook my hand with a pleasant grin. "Sherlock told me about you."

"He did?" I glanced past John to see Sherlock turn to look out the window. His jaw, I could see, was clenched, and was he …blushing? I was hoping he told John of how I had out witted him, the _illustrious _Sherlock Holmes_._

The cab wound its way through the busy streets of London to the outskirts of the bustling city, and I couldn't help getting excited. The trip halted at an area that was marked by neon yellow police tape. Frantic policemen, firefighters, and medics scrambled back and forth in madness, seeming to only ghosts because the air had been masked with a cloud of smoke and dust.

Sherlock opened the door, fully invigorated.

"The game," he eagerly beamed, "is ON!"


	6. Shape of My Heart

_"And when I look to the shape of the sky, _  
><em>I give thanks for this hollow chest of mine, <em>  
><em>that I no longer feel, the great weight of ordeals, <em>  
><em>that can make this life so unkind <em>

_If there's any love in me, don't let it show, _  
><em>oh and if there's any love in me, don't let it grow."<em>

_~Noah and the Whale~_

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock:<strong>

It was apparent that people had died as John, Airic, and I approached the devastated building. The police really couldn't be stupid enough to think this was an accident. The suffering structure happened to be an innocent soup kitchen in Marylebone, so I suppose faulty wiring would be a palpable conclusion for a ruddy homeless kitchen, but I knew better.

I made my way through the rubble, as John and Airic followed at a painstakingly slow pace. I found myself hoping that Airic would find the crime scene too unbearable and leave the spot of destruction… or London… or England. I didn't really care, as long as she was where she couldn't bother me. She was bound to leave soon for her father's funeral (that is, if she found out,) and maybe she wouldn't come back. A small smile spread across my face.

Lestrade spotted us, and hurried towards me to explain the details of the disaster. A strange mix of frustration and relief was in his face, but I was used to seeing that.

"According to eye witnesses, the bomb went off at _exactly_ 10:00 a.m. It was in the basement downstairs, probably hidden somewhere in the plumbing. Eleven people dead," he explained as he ran his hands through his greying hair. I knew he was getting tired of consulting me, but even though Lestrade may've been the best Scotland Yard had to offer, there was always something that he would miss.

I nodded as I scanned the area, my eyes passing over unfamiliar shapes meant to be furniture and a charred body here and there.

"Airic." Lestrade shook her hand and gave a warm grin. "I'm glad you decided to come along. First day on the job! I'm sure you'll do fine."

She replied with a hesitant smile.

He continued, "You'll pin this one quick with Sherlock."

The smile disappeared.

"Well, I hope you're enjoying pleasantries,'' I said with a sarcastic sincerity. "Can I get you some tea and biscuits or perhaps a nice chair to sit in? I doactually prefer working without distractions."

"Sherlock, I know this is hard for you but can you at least try to work with others?" Lestrade muttered.

"I do. I work with John," I reasoned. "And we're doing just fine without _her_ tagging along. It's a disaster waiting to happen." I looked around for her, but she had wondered off.

Lestrade pointed to a subtly hidden area that was set apart for what looked like a kitchen. The only dividing wall was blackened by the explosion and had and an opening for what appeared to be a service bar. Airic had walked in there with John - he was so quick to be loyal.

In the small room, Airic was kneeling down, staring intently at an unrecognizable body. She was unaffected by the pile of flesh that looked nothing like a face and the stiff appendages that were oddly preserved for a bombing.

"12," Lestrade breathed with a grimace. "12 people dead."

"Curious." Sgt. Donovan was standing in the doorway sticking her nose in other peoples' matters, like always. "How did you know that was here?"

I released an agitated moan.

"Isn't it obvious? The door was wide open and looking at the ash on the doorknob, no had opened it after the bomb. We are at a homeless shelter. No sensible person would leave a stockroom or kitchen unattended with starving, desperate creatures around. People have to assume the worst."

John sneered and muttered under his breath, "Don't you always?"

He didn't think I could hear him.

"And the glare," Airic added. "This window -" she pointed to the window parallel to the body. "- let the sun reflect off the man's watch and cast a glare that I saw through the opening in the wall."

"One more freak," Donovan said, perturbed, as she rolled her eyes and walked away.

I knelt down to get a good look at the man. He was fairly short and fat. Therefore, he didn't have a job that required much legwork. I bent low to smell what remained of his hair to catch a whiff of aerosol – hairspray; even though the chemical was burnt away, the smell remained. He had a wedding ring that was quite exquisitely detailed, gold buttons down his shirt, and an embossed, square pin on his shirt's left pocket.

"This man was exceedingly wealthy," I started. "He was also quite the nationalist by his British flag pin, and he was in the public eye so he was very well kept -"

I paused and reflected on something I heard a few days earlier. Looking on my mobile's internet made me sure of the man's identity.

"This, lady and gentlemen, is Nathaniel Gyreossey," I breathed, beaming because I had once again put together a puzzle that no one else seemed to catch.

"Nathaniel Gyreossey, the parliament member?" John asked.

"Yes, John. What other Nathaniel Gyreossey do you know?"

"He did mention some upcoming charity work in a press conference," Lestrade responded.

I looked at Airic, pleased that she was not as quick as Lestrade had made her out to be. She was still gazing at the body.

"If it's of any importance, they're using a pencil bomb with propane-based ignition," she finally said.

I furrowed my brow. Lestrade looked down at Airic with curiosity.

"A pencil bomb is small, but dangerous, and when filled with the right hydrocarbon can make for more damage. It also produces a sizeable amount of heat, which obviously leads to quite a good fire. The thing is, the heat does more damage than the explosion itself."

"You're very knowledgeable in this field," I intervened. "One would think you've lived with a bomb specialist all your life."

Airic's ember eyes suddenly went wide as she focused on me, then murmured, "_Technician._ Bomb _technician._"

"But naturally, when one has a job like that of a bomb technician for the military, work hours can be long – lots of time spent from home, spent from family and children. Not a very good wage, either. If they wanted to ever send their child off for education, something along the lines of a sponsor would be in order."

"Naturally," she warily replied.

"If the parent's child _was_ to pick up such intelligence about these topics and retain it, then the child herself was exposed to such an environment, but not just on occasion. She must have spent all her time with the father. However, because he could never afford a nanny on such a low pay and no sensible person enjoys taking their children to a military station every day, one would wonder where the other parent was to take care of her? Was it another lover, a death? These things are always so delicate."

"The mother must've gotten tired of seeing the same people every day. I bet she left." Airic pursed her lips together, remaining quiet for a few seconds. "All hypothetically, of course. But then, perhaps hypotheticals should mind their own goddamn business."

Lestrade gazed down at his feet while John watched the two of us with wide eyes. Lestrade motioned me out of the room with a stern disapproval in his features.

"Sherlock, I can't have you badgering her. I kind of need her."

"Oh." I understood. "_You_ need her, but I don't. You consult me, Lestrade, not the other way around; so, I would like to be able to do what I do best, without any interference. Enlighten me. Why did you even bring her to London?"

"I saw her talent, Sherlock. She's smart. She's got potential and you know she does. You know, I think I like her because she actually listens to me. You may not be fully aware of it, but I _do_ have a brain."

I briefly paused, reading his face. "True," I agreed. "But, not like mine."

I returned to the room alone to see Airic still sitting on the floor and John by her side.

"Have you been staring at him this whole time?" I sighed.

"No, his watch," she answered. "Someone put it on him _after_ the explosion."

I thought about what she had said, and swiftly moved next to her to see for myself.

"Look," she said, then bent over and gently blew on the watch. The black ash had fallen off it effortlessly.

"If it was here before the bomb, the ash would've stuck, but someone just threw ash on it to make it less noticeable. Also…"

She lifted the watch from the man's burnt wrist.

"…it shouldn't be charred under the watch if he was wearing it at the time, much like a -"

"- suntan," John said with enthusiasm, because he, too, was catching on.

I branched off her theory. "If someone did place it on him afterward, they escaped…out the window,"

There was a disturbance in the ash on the windowpane, a slight brush from a gloved hand - gloved because of the lack of fingerprints.

This was much too easy. The bomber was making some relatively minor mistakes, but to him, it was crucial. One must be careful about such a thing if they wished to challenge me.

* * *

><p>John had a date that evening (why did he never tell me these things ahead of time?), so I rode home with Airic. I wanted to avoid an awkward situation but decided to be the better person, seeing as I was going to be stuck with her for a while.<p>

The cab ride home was pleasantly quiet, but it was a good trip back to central London; therefore, I decided not to get my hopes up. I looked over at Airic, who remained silent with her head resting on the window. It was late, so I figured that the rocking cab lulled her to sleep. If she were to stay with Scotland Yard, she would get used to the weary and onerous nights.

Airic had been oddly quiet throughout the entire day, actually – at least after I brought up her family's dysfunction, which really shouldn't have been that big of a deal. A thought briefly crossed my mind: _was I really the better person?_

I cleared my throat and spoke to her in a quiet voice, "Very well, Airic," My voice was so low it was more of a whisper. "I apologize for mentioning your family in public. I can see how that could be a _sensitive_ topic... and... so, there."

Surely now I was better than she was.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her peach colored mouth form a smirk. She was supposed to have been asleep.

"I forgive you."

"I don't need your forgiveness," I snapped back.

"Of course not. You're Sherlock Holmes," she seemed to shrug it off.

Airic had the peculiar talent of giving me one glimpse of her character and then quickly contradicting it. She could be quiet, knowledgeable company one moment, then terse and talkative, the next. Once one thought she was meek, she would transform into the very epitome of sarcastic with a defiant air about her, challenging me to be one step ahead of her so that she may do the same. Airic knew just how to irk me and didn't mind doing it.

She gazed out the window with a serene aura about her and the streetlights danced innocently across her pale skin. She still didn't know her father was dead. She referred to him in the present tense earlier in the day, so she was clueless about it. I had expected the hospital to call and so refrained from bringing about the news. It wasn't my place anyway – that was some sympathetic and caring nurse's job.

"Airic, have you gotten… a call today?"

"Well, there was my new tenant who called this morning; Lestrade, when you ran off for an hour and we couldn't find you. Oh! Also, someone called with the impression that I was offering a good time," she responded with a smirk, but I spotted a touch of worry in her eyes. "Why?"

I quickly thought up a lie that she would believe. "John intended to call with some details about the case – damage on the bodies, leftover chemicals, things of that sort."

The rest of the cab ride home was silent and calm. I would occasionally look over at Airic, content with watching the city pass by, and I would see her smile at groups of people or some gaudy light display. Airic seemed to smile a lot, but I suppose it was forgivable, because she actually had a decent smile.

When we arrived at her flat, I stepped into the chilly air and walked her up to her building. She didn't realize, in her certain form of ignorance, that her flat was in a crime-ridden part of town. I'm sure she could've taken care of herself from the cab to the door, but I was already there. Besides, I didn't want to _offend_ my new partner. No, I wanted to start this case on a very mature note.

"Let me just find my key..." she said, digging though her purse, but to no avail.

"Here." I knelt down, and with my pocketknife and a borrowed bobby clip, started to pick at the rusty lock that was stiff from years of uncleanliness and negligence. "I'm not sure that you're aware," I said, "of how disgusting your building is.''

She laughed, "You deduced earlier that I can hardly afford London. I don't doubt that you can make the connection.''

I had almost finished picking the lock, when we heard a faint click. The knob turned effortlessly and the decrepit door screeched open.

"I guess one of my friendly new neighbors saw us," she suggested, looking up at the second floor windows for an answer, and then walked inside her broken-down dollhouse.

"Airic," I said abruptly. "Good -" I searched my vocabulary for the appropriate words. "You did... amiable today."

Airic gave one last smile. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," she replied as she closed the door


	7. Sister

_"There's a chip on your shoulder girl_  
><em>and by God it'll make you fall<em>  
><em>if you let it take a part of your soul<em>_."_

_~Mumford and Sons~_

* * *

><p><strong>Airic:<strong>

The stairway to my room was dark and gloomy, especially having just come from a crime scene. The decaying floorboards groaned all the way to my door, and the whole building was quiet at such a late hour. The air was too eerie. In one quick motion, I opened my door, darted inside, and shut it behind me.

Almost immediately, there was a hesitant knock at the door as if someone had been stalking me. Looking though the peephole, I was surprised to see the warm, pleasant face of my new neighbor. I opened the door, wondering if the long day that I spent with rotting bodies and Sherlock would ever end.

"Hello," he said nervously as he rocked back and forth with his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Hi." I didn't know what to think of this meet-and-greet at - most likely - early morning. I would have been glad to socialize any time with him, but my eyes grew heavier with every passing moment.

He politely extended his hand, and I shook it. Slight callouses graced his first three fingertips and his strong forearms had desk marks on them. Despite the illusion of strength, he was definitely a journalist by his weak grip.

"I don't think we've met. I'm Brody. I just moved into the flat next door. I heard you and your… boyfriend trying to get in downstairs."

"Boyfriend," I chuckled. "Not even close. I wouldn't even go so far as to call him a friend. I'm really sorry if we woke you up or anything. It's just that I forgot my keys and…" I glanced to my desk where the keys lay in plain bloody sight, giving the impression that only a daft woman could not see them. "Thanks for letting me in, though." I wasn't normally the person to get embarrassed, but I hated to be known as the incompetent girl who has to break into her own flat. Looking at Brody, I couldn't help grinning. He smiled like a fool and leaned into me – my feminine instincts told me that he was looking for _some _sort of relationship.

He put his weight on the doorframe and gave a confident smirk that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

"Anything for my new neighbor." For a moment, it was silent, and I thought to myself.

My stomach twisted into a knot as I realized that the certain relationship he desired required hitting on me. He was what girls would often find attractive - short, copper hair; possessed a bright smile; and dare I say, quite a good body. Nevertheless, unfortunately for him, I was not looking for any romantic attachments.

"Nice to meet you, Brody," I said curtly as I started to close the door, only to be stalled again.

"Wait." He held the door, knowing fully well that I was not interested. "What's your name?"

"Airic."

"If you ever need _anything,_ anyone to talk to - I'm a fairly good listener. Even if you need someone to go get coffee with…" Brody read the denial in my face, acceptingly smiled at his defeat, and sighed, "Goodnight, Airic."

My eyes followed him to his door, and then I shut mine, thankful for hushed solitude at last.

* * *

><p>It was the next evening; one could easily tell that autumn was just settling in, calling England its home for two or so months until winter had finally evicted it. The sky was beginning to lose its light earlier in the day. Stars were just coming out to play, but daringly so as the sun would not yet go to bed.<p>

My stomach was just beginning to talk to me as I headed out for the night, planning to try out the little café at the end of the block. I opened the door to find Sherlock posed as if he was about to knock and with a small bouquet of white daisies dangling helplessly at his side. He was no less surprised than I was.

"Good evening," he said without smiling.

I slowly nodded, still fazed by his spontaneous turn-up. "Yes, it is."

We stared at each other in silence for a couple moments and then, throwing a glance behind me, he asked, "May I come in?"

"I was actually just about to leave."

A trace of unrecognizable emotion played across his features, but the unpleasant thought quickly left his mind and he shrugged. "Well, then, surely it would be no problem if I were to accompany you. I haven't eaten yet, either."

I hesitated. A small, unintentional groan escaped my mouth, giving away my preference. Sherlock's dark brows raised and, in a way that was unexpectedly out of character, he lifted his arm for me to take hold of. Silently and with only a conceding smirk, I swept past him. Sherlock trailed close behind.

We ambled down the city streets, still quiet – as we always were – but there was something different about this time. Sherlock was normally quiet because he was not necessarily a man of words, and I cooperated because I had no want to talk to him. Now, the silence was like static – annoying, monotonous, and deafening at any volume.

Tossing a glance over at Sherlock, I realized how perfectly his appearance fit his character. He wasn't normal, but then, there was nothing wrong with him. His white skin was an unearthly pallor, but as lights flickered across his face, warmth would materialize and Sherlock seemed abnormally vulnerable. I had yet to see a light that made Sherlock human.

I smiled when he met my gaze and nodded to the bouquet that he still carried by his side. "I didn't think that you liked flowers."

He became aware of the bothersome little daisies and looked at them with the smallest bit of distaste. "John thought that you would enjoy them."

With a laugh, I took the token from his spidery grip and read aloud the tiny card that clung to them:

"_Airic,_

_I'm so sorry. I would be glad to help anytime I can. _

_Hopefully, you'll appreciate these more than Sherlock thinks. _

_~John Watson_

…_and Sherlock."_

"Why -?"

Sherlock began, oblivious of my utter confusion, "John has this theory that women will perk up at any chance to get flowers, as if _daisies_ could solve almost any problem. Said that these in particular would brighten up your day."

"What's this about?" I tried again, knowing that he was stalling for some significant reason,

"I always thought it odd that women are so easily wooed with such short-lived things like flowers; they're pungent, severed plants on the brink of expiration. I don't quite perceive you as a flowery person, anyway."

"You're right on that," I remarked. "But it would be a _crime _to get rid of them after all of John's effort."

Sherlock smirked, taking the unloved, neglected daisies and tossing them into a nearby bin with accurate aim. Before abandoning them, he saved John's card – technically his as well - and placed it in my palm.

"What do people say? '_It's the thought that counts?__'_" he queried, standing tall with his hands folded behind his back.

He was smiling – well, _hardly_, but for Sherlock, every brief beam or smirk counted – and then began to go on about which little restaurant he was going to introduce to me. Sherlock recalled the same café where he and John set a trap for one criminal and waited all night for the blunderer. As I listened, a sickly feeling flooded my body. Sherlock and I had known each other for about two weeks – which was about two weeks of loathing – but I still knew that Sherlock was not acting like himself.

Something wasn't right. I ceased walking and thought, trying to avoid the worst possible ideas from creeping into my mind. Sherlock strolled ahead for a few moments until realizing that I wasn't at his side.

"Sherlock." My voice quivered, but then I continued with more strength. "Why are you doing this? Why are you being so kind to me?"

The ice blue of his eyes never warmed, never grew less paralyzing as he looked into my own and said in a terse, blunt tone, "Airic… your father died three days ago."

I blinked, inhaled, and exhaled for what felt like ten minutes. Nothing dropped inside of me, I didn't unravel at the seams. It couldn't have been true. There was no way three days could pass without me knowing that my own dad died. "No."

"He died in an accident, Airic – a faulty explosive."

I laughed.

"It happened on the job. He was lifted to St. Bart's because of the injuries…"

Sherlock continued in a low mumble. His dark silhouette began to fade in with the rest of the city structures behind him.

"…but the hospital didn't…" he resumed before his voice grew into an inaudible droning.

Again, I inhaled and exhaled, this time with more difficulty. The irony taste of blood was on my lips, though I was certain that there was none being shed.

"…think that something went…"

The strong, mineral blood seeped through the roof of my mouth, slithering its way up to my brain and warmly back down my throat.

"…Are you…?"

My lungs were filling up with water.

"…Airic, I'm…"

A lightness came over my body, overwhelming me with the desire to collapse like a paper doll and see if I'd drift away in the bitterly cold wind. I felt the darkness tug on my limbs when an agonizing pressure began to crush my lungs. Crunching down on me with a searing pain, smothering my chest with no consideration for my approval, the suffocating abyss swallowed me whole.

As I slowly drowned, a warmth caught my arms and held me up with ease, waiting until the storm had passed, until I could once again stand with a clear mind. All my attention focused on blinking away the cloudy haze over my eyes and stabling myself.

My hands moved to my face, the cold fingers shocking me back into my body as if I had been a balloon tethered to a melancholy corpse, recently popped and hurdling helplessly back to earth. Suddenly, I remembered where I was.

"I think… I'm not hungry," I murmured without meeting Sherlock's gaze. My steps were leisurely and careful as I made my way back to my flat, praying every step of the way that Sherlock would not come after me. Thank God he didn't.

I touched my cheek, expecting to discover tear-soaked lashes and wet eyes, but found none. I didn't even cry.


	8. Bullets

"_Green hills and enemies; _

_these things make us sentimental inside. _

_We'__re catching bullets in our teeth. _

_It's hard to do but they're too sweet. _

_We're catching bullets in our heads and hearts _

_and all the darkest parts of us."_

_~Tunng~_

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock:<strong>

Top layer – nothing much. Brick dust, cedar wood ash, and dead skin cells.

It's amazing how many remains can leave their imprint on an object. Everything we touch latches onto our skin. Everywhere we go, we write maps on our shoes. Many analysts simply search for blood and DNA left behind on evidence, but they don't realize that they have history in their hands. They never think of left-behind oils and chemicals as a trail of footprints that lead to a criminal.

Once the first layer of grime was scratched away from the Marylebone watch, I could easily distinguish the map that presented itself.

"Vinyl acetate, ethanol alcohol, pine wood, and tea leaves," I said to John, who had just walked through the lab door.

"What?"

I didn't bother to look up from my microscope. "The oils, John. The oils left on the watch tell us what he did."

"The bomber?"

"No, John. _Gyreossey_."

"You mean the dead man?"

I turned my eyes from the little microorganisms that danced on the slide and looked up at his perplexed expression. "Look," I said, motioning to the piece of paper with my observations written in a quick scrawl. "The ethanol alcohol – the main chemical in cologne - tells us that he put the watch on while getting ready. The vinyl acetate further confirms that because he had to do his hair. He was right-handed, so the watch brushed against his hair as he combed it, lightly spreading the vinyl acetate – hairspray - on it. But, there's also tea leaves on the clock face and pine wood on the back of it. Why would it have those random substances on it? Because Nathanial Gyreossey received the watch as the Yard did – in a little box packaged with wood shavings. He figured it was a gift so he put it on, got ready for his charity event, and then realized that the watch was broken and threw it out with the morning tea."

John was still gaping at the observations when Airic slinked through the door with a trying smile on her face. Her long hair was tied back, making it easier to notice the dark spots under her sleep-deprived eyes. In the florescent light, Airic seemed like a colorless corpse drained of its blood. She hadn't eaten, either. When she realised what I was doing – that I was reading how she took to the news of her father's death, her mouth curled into a slight sneer. She appeared more irritated than amused.

"Hi," she murmured.

John looked up, a bit surprised, and warmly greeted her with a smile. No doubt, he expected her to quit the case after finding out her dad died. I was just as astonished as John was, but it didn't concern me enough to show it. "Airic. How are –?"

"Fine," she answered abruptly. "Perfect. Brilliant. I'm fine. It's all fine." Her voice was hollow, giving me the sense that her mind was distant from her flesh and pondering things she normally wouldn't ponder. She was hardly in the lab with us.

"Yeah. Of course you're fine," John replied, a bit hurt.

I said nothing and observed. Then, without the ability to care less about the situation, I turned back to my microscope.

"Has the bloodhound sniffed out anything new?" she asked John in a more obliging tone.

He nodded and handed her the scrap of paper. As she read, her eyes brightened with curiosity. "So, they get a warning? It arrives at their doorstep the very day they die?"

I nodded.

"Elegant," Airic whispered to herself, receiving a horrified glance from John.

_Wasn't it, though? _

"That's better, though. Right? For us?" John asked. "We know when a bomb will go off."

"No," I answered him. "It's better for the criminal. He wants us to notice a pattern – he wants to be noticed. This is all a game for him, all this chaos. It's much too fun to watch the city burn, and yet it gets boring without an audience."

"You're suggesting we're the audience?"

"Maybe." I closed my eyes to try to detect a pattern but came up dry. After all, there had only been one explosion.

Airic waltzed around the table, glancing over the stack of random papers and evidence. I watched her rummage through my data and felt frustration well up slowly inside of me. God, she was so distracting. All I wanted was to think and her presence would disrupt my mind like a leaf falling on a still pond – creating thousands of unstoppable ripples with the smallest contact.

"Airic. John and I will have coffee – black, two sugars."

John gave me one of his many that's-socially-unacceptable looks – this was the "_You can't avoid certain people by ordering them to get you coffee. Oh! And don't drag me into this, Sherlock"_ look.

"Actually, Airic," John said. "I'll get it. I don't care for sugar in my coffee, and well, you know Sherlock. He's meticulous about all sorts things - his coffee is one of those things."

He flashed a smile towards Airic and walked out of the room, leaving her and me alone in an awkward situation. I decided to ignore her and erase thought of her company.

She glared at me from across the table with a pained exasperation in her eyes. When my eyes looked up to meet hers, she exhaled a staggered breath followed by a weak smile. A smile wouldn't mask her problems.

"Go home, Airic," I said. "If you can't deal with it, leave. Quit."

Color rushed to her face, seemingly all at once and her eyes glowed brighter than ever. Her mouth turned up and she stared at me, amused. "I think you underestimate my ability to _deal with it_, Sherlock Holmes. I've been dealing with things my entire life, but how could you know that? Can't you see it in my fingernails and tan lines? Didn't you read it in my records? Surely it was carved on my dad's corpse? Even if I'm irrelevant in your world, I'm still in it. So, please, understand me when I tell you that I won't go home; I can never simply quit. I decided to see this glorious nightmare through, and there's no turning back." She stopped then continued quietly. "Look. Once I've made up my mind, I would have better luck stopping a freight train. I… I can't explain it. No matter how hard I try, my stubbornness always dominates. You of all people should understand _that_. My mind is constantly moving to 'seek a Great Perhaps,' Sherlock, but for some reason the Great Perhaps is forever changing. When I told John that I was fine, I meant it. I couldn't be more at peace, because now, I've nothing to lose. I can do whatever I want, and I can't hurt anyone but myself. The last person who truly cared about my well-being is gone, and I've never felt so liberated. My mind creates all these grandiose schemes – _brilliant_ adventures, Sherlock, but these escapades always end in some sort of suffering. I grew a tolerance to pain, whereas everyone else is different. You can hurt John, and you're aware of it – even if you are _vaguely_ aware of it. But I have no one. You've no clue how amazing it feels to spare people pain."

I looked to my microscope then at the door, hoping that John would asphyxiate the discussion.

"Is that bad?" she breathed. Airic looked at the ground, and I could detect a bit of embarrassment. I wasn't a therapist, I didn't care, and we hardly wanted to be near each other. Yet, she was showing me the mind that lay behind her odd character. This was as new to her as it was to me. She tried to smother all emotion, waving off our previous conversation. Nonchalantly, she lifted up the grey gift-box, peeked into it and dug out the addressed card. She grinned. "You didn't show me this."

"I didn't need to."

"You wouldn't like to know who to look for? Or have you already noted it?"

I was silent.

"A military man. We're looking for a military man – not a private, but higher-ranked. You see how there is an odd amount of pressure and yet he writes smoothly, that tells us that he handles firearms. The abnormally large capitals against the miniscule lower case letters say military. When signing documents, authorities tend to sign with a largely dominant capital – growing up, I always figured it to be an _alpha male _gesture. The _e_, it's Greek. This means that the man has been influenced by the culture."

"Cyprus."

She smiled.

"The British Armed Forces in Cyprus," I continued. "Our man came from the base in Cyprus."

"_Ayios Nikolaos_ to be more specific," Airic added.

"Ah, but our military man is not the mastermind behind all this."

"No?"

"Mm. Nope. He's a part of the plan but not the genius. He's the man who runs the errands, gets things done. He spies on the victims and makes sure we get the warnings," I contended.

"He put the watch on the body before we came."

"Precisely."

John opened the heavy lab door with great effort considering he was carrying three mugs filled to the brim with hospital-quality coffee. He cast a sheepish grin, glancing back and forth between Airic and me. John didn't want to interrupt anything. He took notice of our now eager faces and announced, for lack of something better to say, "Coffee?"


	9. Always Like This

"_You kept you word. _

_It's there on your mouth, but it's not what I heard._

_If I follow the light that I deem the brightest, _

_I won't believe that it's always like this."_

_~Bombay Bicycle Club~_

* * *

><p><strong>Airic:<strong>

A couple days of nothingness passed. Sherlock hardly spoke, leaving John and me to resort to awkward conversation. We would talk as Sherlock sat huddled in a chair with his eyes shut, but conversation usually was not enough, so we'd bother him. But it was all the same if we didn't, because there was still the waiting. We waited for another bombing. After a long day of nothing but waiting, I'd go home late then stay up even later, researching explosions, psychopaths, anything that could be relevant. I was growing tired of waiting.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock," I wondered aloud. "What could you possibly be thinking about?"<p>

He opened his eyes and unravelled from his Thinking Position in the cold lab chair. He glanced around the room and asked, "John's still at work?"

"It's been thirty minutes since he left."

He fetched a deep sigh and looked blankly at me. "I'm not doing anything, Airic. You don't have to be here."

"Don't flatter yourself; I'm here for the same reason you are. I'm bored."

The clock's ticking resounded mockingly in the room – a painfully slow _tick, tick, tick_. On impulse, I stood up and flung my white coat around me. My shoes clicked loudly as I stepped to the door, but halfway out the room, I stopped. Sherlock resumed his Thinking Position, and for a moment, I couldn't tell if he'd been replaced with a statue.

"Sherlock," I began. "Just how often do you get out?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we have nothing to do. You can't work all the time."

He shrugged. "Quite the contrary."

As much as he wanted to be a machine, no matter what emotions he deleted or how many social skills he lacked, Sherlock was still human. He couldn't work when there was nothing to work on; he couldn't think when there was nothing to think about. One can't live without a life.

I raised an eyebrow and we remained, for a while, silent and glaring. His eyes held mine undesigning. A sort of tacit understanding between us made itself apparent, and he tried to stifle an entertained smirk. _Yes, Sherlock Holmes. I dare you__.__ Take a break._

His white hand reached for his coat and he stood up, towering over me. "Fine. What do you suggest we do?"

I shrugged. It didn't matter as long as we weren't sitting on hard, metal stools in a cold, dim hospital lab. I motioned to a stack of papers with Sherlock's observations and data and said, "Lestrade would appreciate these. I know you don't work for him, but police support is always an advantage – or, at least, when your only muse is solving puzzles and they have all the pieces."

Sherlock looked to the pile of untidy papers, gathered them in one sweep, and then held them out for me to take with an apathetic smirk.

We ambled down the streets, our footsteps perfectly synced in time. I pulled my coat closer around my body so that I could fend off the autumn chill and felt the seemingly increasing weight of the papers under my arm. My eyes flickered to Sherlock, who walked in silence with his shoulders back and hands shoved in his pockets. His cheeks were flushed from the cold air and his eyes subtly scanned anyone who dared pass by us.

"Tell me about them," I said, nodding to a man and woman who were holding hands and sitting on a bench.

Sherlock looked at me with a questioning gaze but didn't debate. "Alright." His eyes narrowed at the couple. Then they passed out of our view, hidden by the morning traffic. "The man: a nurse. He's not so happy with that job, though. At night, he plays in pubs – banjo. Obviously, he has yet to make a name for himself."

"Shame. One can't quite make it with a banjo."

"He's having trouble with two –"

"Three," I corrected.

"I said three. He's having trouble with three different banks, because of overdue credit bills. As for the woman, well, she doesn't know about her lover's debt. She works somewhere high-end – I'd suspect… ah, she's an architect. They share the same flat but, oddly enough, different beds - probably because her ill father is living with them as well. A bit awkward to knock about knowing that your father's next door."

I laughed louder than was appropriate, but it seemed like I hadn't laughed in centuries. Strangers gawked at us, annoyed by the distraction from their cacophony of cab horns and shoes treading pavement. "Well, he's about to propose to her, so it wouldn't matter anyway," I resumed.

"Oh?" Sherlock shot a curious look at me.

"The little square bulge in his jacket pocket – a ring. Why do you think he's had to max three credit cards? To impress his _darling_ posh girlfriend."

The double-decker bus that obstructed the scene moved from its spot, exposing the couple now kissing, hugging, ecstatic. The young woman had a new ring on her thin finger. I smiled at my triumph, and Sherlock's brows knit together at the sight of the happy pair.

"You know," I began as they climbed into a cab, "I think it takes very brave people to commit to matrimony. Marriage is becoming one with another flawed and faulty human being. You have to lose yourself, every day answering to the same person. The idea of a steady living – a set job, children, even dating – is all so frightful. It's dreadfully monotonous. I think I'm too conceited for that life."

Sherlock wasn't listening. His mind was wandering the folds of his consciousness, dwelling on abstract puzzles. His expression suddenly changed and he mumbled to himself. All that I caught was "monotonous."

* * *

><p>The next morning, I woke up the same way I fell asleep: TV on, half dressed, and sprawled out on my sofa. The previous day's nothingness had left me particularly lethargic, but the loud, frantic voices on the current channel startled me. The news was previewing the unfortunate spot of the bombing. People were running about, crying for the tragedy of the twelve lives lost, as the news anchor shared the details.<p>

_A bit late,_ I thought to myself with a scowl.

"Twelve lives lost at London's Dream Centre in Mayfair," the reporter said with teary eyes. "One of the lives being parliament member Hermione Parker."

I stopped fumbling with the tea I had started to fix and locked my eyes on the screen. There had been a second bombing at 10:00 a.m., and I had missed it. I tore apart my flat in search of my phone to see if Lestrade or Sherlock had notified me.

There was neither a text nor a phone call and I figured that someone - Sherlock, probably - did not want my input any longer. Shockingly, I felt a sting of bitter disappointment in me for I suppose I had begun to enjoy the mystery too much to stop.

I began to dial Sherlock's number, mashing the buttons in aggravation. The phone rang, but there was no answer . I dialled again and was sent automatically to voicemail. I decided to text him instead.

_Sherlock._

Almost instantly, he replied.

_Can't talk. I'm preoccupied at the moment._

_Sherlock, you went without me._

I got no response. Frustrated, I threw my phone into the worn sofa pillow and plopped in front of the telly, and there I remained until a slow knock sounded at the door.

It was Brody, bearing a casual and hopeful look about him.

"If you aren't busy…" His words were rushed like he was trying to get them out before I closed the door. "I was going to see if you would like to get coffee with me."

I pondered my now clear schedule, and weighed the option of either boredom or Brody. The nothingness was getting old, getting _monotonous. _

"You know," I grinned, "I think I'm free."

Brody took me to a quaint little bakery named "Speedy's" which was ironic considering the shop was crawling along at a sluggish pace. We took a seat by the window with a lovely view of passing people and zooming cars. Brody set his thin fingers on the table and lightly tapped little patterns, aching to be set loose upon a keyboard to type some garish article. He watched them as they drummed the table – a perfect diversion from his building anxiety.

"So how are you enjoying London?" he asked without looking up.

"It's a bit different, but it's entertaining. I feel like I'm going on an adventure just to get to work," I replied.

"You work?"

"Well, somewhat. It's more of a temp position."

He nodded like he understood my situation completely, despite my own loss of description. Brody's eyes flickered to mine, with a genuine curiosity about my existence and the patience to figure it out.

"And friends? I bet you've made a good amount of friends, a girl like you."

I smiled, a bit put off by his small talk, and I wondered what exactly _a girl like me_ was. "No, I don't really have time for friends… or anything else, for that matter," I lied. It's not that I didn't have time for them – I had been toiling away my hours merely watching Sherlock think. I just didn't want them. Friends wanted you to stay with them, please them, dedicate your thoughts and time to them. Friends get upset – get hurt if you leave them. Therefore, friends were solely baggage that had the potential to tie down even the most strong-headed person. "And you?" I inquired, suddenly uncomfortable with the talk circled around me. "You write?"

Brody gave a slight start, incredulity deep in his expression. "How-?" He soon recovered and sat up a bit straighter. "Yeah, I do write. I write for columns on science – astrology, equations, that sort of thing – and various magazines choose when to publish and what to publish. It's all very odd – a mad business, writing."

Without sarcasm, I replied, "I wish you wouldn't have said that. Now, I quite respect you."

He lifted a brow in disbelief.

"You don't just write articles, you write _scientific _articles. I think it's brilliant. I once heard that science was 'imagination in a straightjacket.' Any man who can harness imagination and put it to paper in a captivating way, all the while in a straightjacket, deserves some recognition." Though, I couldn't quite believe that Brody was in any way affiliated with science.

Subsequently, Brody was uneasy with the conversation resting on himself. Bashfully, he rose to his feet and offered to order a drink. I nodded, and he left me to stare out the window and watch the hustling crowds. The telly that was loitering in the corner of the café was tuned to the news. I watched, wrongfully envious of the police officers that poked around in the rubble at this morning's Mayfair tragedy for the bodies of the unfortunate.

"Oh, Sherlock," I whispered to myself. "This was supposed to be an adventure."

Then, coincidently, Sherlock himself walked through the door, innocent in his manner and obviously in deep thought.

I opened my mouth to speak with a rekindled contempt, but he addressed my anger without ambivalence.

"You were not contacted, because I did not need you," he explained, and welcomed himself to a seat.

I raised my eyebrow. "I suppose it's _your _investigation."

The answer came without pause. "Unofficially, but yes." His thought process was a mystery to the universe, myself included.

"If you don't need me, why are you here?" I smiled. "Are you spying on me?"

He hinted a smirk that said he knew something that I didn't. "I happen to live next door," he answered, and then muttered, "Slight paranoia."

Rather than throwing back bitter words or perpetual small-talk – I got my fill from Brody - I shrugged it off and changed the subject.

"Here," I said and placed the watch from the first bombing on the fiberglass table as Sherlock's blue eyes lit up with amusement. "I thought we might need a reference."

Taking evidence from its proper place – Scotland Yard or the hospital – was illegal, and we both knew that. If Sherlock wanted to, he could've turned me in, and he and John could resume their two-man show.

"Stealing evidence?" he asked. "Good." He then pulled out a watch that matched mine and held it in his hands, treating it tenderly. "Hermione Parker, this morning's relevant victim, was identified with the same watch as Nathaniel Gyreossey and the Yard's."

"I suppose the other lives ended weren't relevant?"

A cloud of vacancy passed over his face, but our conversation ended as Brody approached the table. He sat my coffee in front of me and took a seat between Sherlock and me with a painfully painted smile.

"Black with two sugars?"

Guilty that I had forgotten all about him, I nodded. Sherlock briefly looked at him, making little mental notes to keep in the file cabinets of his mind.

Brody's face was plastered with emotions: confusion, jealousy, and most prominently, disappointment. "Hi…" he said quietly.

"Brody, this is Sherlock." Sherlock nodded as I said his name, but kept his eyes locked on the watch.

"Hm. Brody," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "My brother, Mycroft, had a dog named Brody. The crass canine was run over in due time." Thankfully, Brody was oblivious to Sherlock's comment.

There was a moment of awkward silence between us. "I'm so sorry," Brody said apologetically, "I have to leave early. I forgot that I have a column to work on."

"It's fine." _He didn't last long,_ I thought.

And as quickly as Sherlock had appeared, Brody was out the door.

Sherlock finally put down the watch and looked up at me. "So you prefer your men impaired, do you?" he pressed.

My tolerance for his uncensored remarks felt like it was dissipating. "That's none of your business!" I stopped. "What do you mean impaired?"

"He's partially deaf, don't you know?" He was enjoying my fault. "Miniscule ear chip, late to respond, and the earpiece is from the hospital. Those are only temporary, so he's soon due for surgery. You should send a card; I know he'd like that."

"He's nothing. A neighbour, and that's all," I said, a bit heated. "I want to remain unattached."

For a second, I could distinguish a slight change in Sherlock's face, but it soon went back to normal. He cleared his throat.

"The watches are the exact same as the one we received as a gift," Sherlock began. "The only differentiating factor is the engraving on the back. The warning had an N, the first bomb had an H and this…" he said, flipping the watch over as proof, "…has a P. The letters are foreshadowing-"

I nodded. "It's simple. N for Nathaniel, H for Hermione, and we're being warned about the next one."

"Right. The targeted victims are members of the government." Sherlock put his palms together and closed his eyes. "We have the targets, but we need the time and place."

We sat in silence and thought, running through correlations and details in our heads, when a disturbing question came to my mind.

"Sherlock," I said softly.

He nodded, but kept his eyes shut.

"How long do you think this will go on?"

Abruptly, Sherlock stood up with the watches in hand and started to walk out the door. I was startled, but then I quickly followed suit. He turned sharply out the door and stopped at the flat marked 221B.

"I need to think," he stated, while tucking both watches into his coat pocket.

Without delay, I snatched my contribution out of his hand before he slipped it into his pocket.

"You're not doing this without me," I said solemnly. He paused, and I expected a clever rebuttal, but instead, I received a slight grin.

"Very well. Meet me here tomorrow morning."

"It's a date," I conferred, trying to mask my excitement.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but couldn't seem to grasp the right words. "Mm…" His brow furrowed.

How I longed to peek inside his mind to hear his thoughts.

"Alright then," he finished, then turned on his heel and went into 221B. Without neither a glance back nor a goodbye, he slammed the door. Sherlock left me so suddenly that it took a moment to realise that I was alone in the autumn chill.

For a while, I stood on the sidewalk and felt the cool watch against my fingertips. I saw the normal people walk by and swiftly guessed their normal problems. After my mother had left, I was never normal, especially with my odd "talent." Once or twice, I've caught myself praying to be just another ordinary person leading a conventional life.

I listened to the normalcy, not quite sure if it was my imagination, but I thought I could hear a violin sweetly streaming Mozart. Along with the frosty London air, I breathed in the gleeful notes and let them linger in my ears. Whether they had been a figment of my mind or not, I knew that I didn't want them to fade away.


	10. King and Lionheart

"_Oh, the ghosts, they be appearing._

_Mountains, they are stacked with fear._

_But you're a King, and I'm a lionheart."_

_~Of Monsters and Men~_

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock:<strong>

It had been a long time since I possessed the will to pick up a piece of Mozart. I knew that I must work the case in my mind, for the bomber was on a schedule, but there was something inside of me that felt the need to take to "Divertimento in D". Playing was a mental relief, a break from my mind. I love thinking and picking up details. I could spend the rest of my days deducing problems, but people don't seem to comprehend that the very thing I love, my mind, can imprison me.

Within the last few measures, John walked through the door from an ordinary day at his unexciting job.

"You're playing violin," he noted with a hint of curiosity.

"Yes."

"In the middle of cracking a case?" He narrowed his eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." I packed the violin and bow in its case and lay out on the sofa. John went to the kitchen, and I listened to the clanking of dishes and his worn shoes scuff the floor. "John?"

He took a moment to answer. "Yes?"

I wasn't quite sure how to put what was running through my mind into words. "What are dates like?"

The moving about in the kitchen stopped and John peeked his head into the room to look at me. Astonishment covered his face, and I began to think of ways out of the impending conversation.

"A date with - with a woman?" he stammered.

"Dreadfully dull, I expect. Not worth a man's time." I turned over on the sofa so that my back was facing John. I should have avoided this situation.

"No," he explained. "No, it's... good. That is, if she's the right girl."

As I listened to him, I felt an odd, nauseating sensation in my stomach. Was this normal?

"Sherlock?"

There was a pause, and the silence turned into an intolerable cacophony. I looked over my shoulder to see him grinning like an idiot.

"Do you have a date?"

"Oh, John. Don't be so naive."

"Why did you ask, then?"

"Research for experiments, testing theories and such."

John's smile grew larger. "You didn't mention any experiments."

"John, you don't honestly think I tell you everything? If so, you're slower than I thought – which would make you quite invaluable as -"

"What?" John bit back. "As a friend?"

"I was actually going to say colleague, but that's fine, too."

His eyes burned into the back of my head when I shrugged and turned away. I pictured him so perfectly, arms crossed, shaking his head and leaning on the right foot.

"No," he said. "No, I _know _you don't tell me everything. That's why we're having this conversation, because there's something you're not telling me. That's how it always works; you don't tell me what you're up to, then you involve me in it."

My eyes met his and I noted the building frustration in his expression. "I'm not involving you."

He said nothing.

"I'm bored with this topic," I sighed as I stood up and put on my coat. "I'm going out." I was out of the room before John could reply.

The grocery store had exceeded my expectations on how depressing and repulsive it was. The boring little people shuffled about and I was wondering out of all places, why I had chosen to come here.

I found myself in the dairy isle gaping at the different milk labels. John always bothers me about getting the milk. What type of milk does he drink? There were so many varieties. I can't fathom that people spend their lives coming up with different kinds of milk, wasting their brain power on something so ordinarily useless. I snatched a carton and marched to the checkout, not caring whether John would be pleased with the selection or not.

As I impatiently waited in line, my eyes scanned the London maps and guidebooks placed by the chip and pin machine for desperate tourists. I studied the winding streets and took a mental trip from Marylebone to Mayfair. They weren't a terribly great distance apart. All one had to do is take a quick ride in the tube to-

I stopped for a split second, and then returned to my thinking with a new vigour. Instead of milk, I purchased a map of the London area and hastily left the store. John was going to have to wait for his milk. I had more pressing matters to attend to.

Although the night was long, I found myself heading back to Baker Street just as the sun was beginning to melt away the violet in the sky. I worked all night, riding tubes, taking measurements, and covering a significant amount of distance while still staying in central London. If the last measurement proved correct, then the case would be quickly tucked away as an amusing little puzzle. One more attack was all I needed. It takes two things – two bombs, two mistakes to detect a pattern, but three to confirm it.

Noticing the new scuff marks at the base of the steps, I meandered up the stairs. The flat was unlocked, and I opened the door to see John sitting in his chair, looking as attentive as ever. Something about the room felt askew.

"John, I need some cash," I uttered as I went to the locked desk in which his money was kept. It unlocked easily with my key, and I hunched over to dig through the piles of scraps and notes.

"Where the _hell _have you been?" John asked, his demeanour more severe than necessary.

"Out," I answered. "You do have money, don't you?"

John folded his arms. "No, Sherlock, I don't. I need it for a cab."

Now he had my attention. My hands stopped rifling through the drawers and I straightened my posture. "It's six o'clock. What do you need a cab for?" My eyes drifted to the corner of the room where my violin lay propped against the wall with the bow neatly nestled beside it. It was wrong. "Who touched my violin?"

"I did," said Airic, who was sitting in the chair opposite to John – _my _chair. How long had she been there? A worn leather trunk lay at her feet – must've been heavy if she had to scuff up the floors carrying it up. "If it means that much to you, I can say sorry."

"Don't touch my things."

"What was I supposed to do when I saw your violin in the fireplace?" she contended.

"It helps the resonance."

"Are you just telling me that so I can't deflate your pride?"

I took a deep breath and glared at her for a moment. She looked prim in her black dress and rouged lips but hinted slight dread in the corners of her normally turned-up mouth. Airic was not a morning person. "Don't touch my things," I repeated.

"Never again," she delicately replied.

John swiftly stood, almost as if to make a point and direct the attention away from the wrongful meddling of my items. "Alright," he interjected. "Alright. Sherlock, if you'd be so helpful as to hand over my money, I'm going to take her to the airport."

I clutched the notes in my hand and looked Airic up and down. She had large luggage, but it was merely one trunk – not enough to suggest that she was moving back to wherever she came from. She was going for the father's funeral, no doubt. Nonchalant, I held out the money for him to take, and he took it after casting me a look.

Mrs. Hudson came galumphing up the stairs and knocked on the open door with her customary "Hoo-hoo." She smiled sweetly to me and turned to John. "Your cab just got here," her voice chimed before acknowledging Airic. "Oh, hello, dearie." Mrs. Hudson knew not to pry, but I could plainly see that she wanted to know who this new woman was. She gawked at Airic for a moment, satisfied her curiosity with the title of John's New Lady-Friend, and left.

John fumbled with Airic's case as they both headed out of the flat. Airic stopped in front of me, smiling a somewhat bittersweet smile, trying not to appear dismayed. The thought of returning home began to set her into exceeding disarray. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

My eyes met hers, and she seemed to take comfort in that. "Goodbye."

She gave a ragged sigh, and then gazed up at me with a new determination. "I won't be gone long. I know you won't call, so text me if there's any new progress."

I nodded and watched her descend the stairs slowly, trying to linger in the novel world that she had come to know. Her home was the place where she felt indifferent and invulnerable. She was untouchable when she put on her calloused mask that was constructed in Ireland. But as I thought to myself, I realised that Airic wasn't as tolerable to pain as she claimed – it was killing her to return to the place of her old immortality.


End file.
